Catharsis
by wolf of infinity
Summary: Russia is near the breaking point, and a nightmare, a fever and a world conference put together makes the final straw... Russia-centred, angsty one-shot. Human names used. No pairings.


_Wow, this turned out pretty long actually… I guess I find myself fascinated by the emotionally broken, fragile sides of our beloved Russia-chan…__ ^^ I have no idea what inspired this, but I did have somewhat of a plot with this~ I hope you'll enjoy the angst! Also, this is not a romance fic, and there's no pairings. If you wonder about the title, search it up on Google or something ^^_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia – Axis Powers or any of its characters._

oOo

Everything around him was white. His world consisted of vast emptiness and there, in the middle of it, he stood; unable to move. Inside his chest, he could feel his heart exploding against his ribs, and the sound was the only thing that filled the space at first. It was like this every time, but it never lasted.

Soon enough, he could see the silhouette of someone ahead, and his breath hitched as panic spread through his veins. A sense of urgency forced his body to move, and soon he was darting through the misty emptiness. The shadow ahead slowly came closer and closer… His subconsciousness pleaded for his body to stop, as he already knew what would meet him but, as always, he kept running.

When he reached the silhouette, his feet drifted to a halt and he stood frozen in fear and shock, as he saw the figure turning against him. The young man stared at him, his green gaze filled with such an intense mix of fear, betrayal, agony and hatred… Blood was soaking his clothes and his shoulder-length, brown hair – dripping to the ground under him in small pools. The colour contrasted almost painfully against the white. His pale, almost bluish lips moved to form the words they always did, while blood bubbled up and slipped down his chin.

_You did this... You killed me…_

oOo

Ivan's eyes snapped open as he darted up in bed, gasping for breath. His chest hurt immensely, signalling that he'd actually stopped breathing in reality too, and his mind swam. Stumbling out of bed, he staggered over to the bath room, falling to his knees next to the toilet and promptly throwing up.

When he finished retching, he shakily got to his feet, flushing the toilet and stumbling over to the sink to wash up. The sight that met him made him stop for a moment. A pale face looked back at him, dark circles resting under tired and glazy, violet eyes and a red tint marring his cheeks. Tears had clearly made their way down his cheeks, and his eyes were rimmed with red as a consequence of this. To tell the truth, he looked like shit. Which was fitting, as that was exactly how he felt.

He stripped off his clothes, while he let the rather large bath tub fill up with warm water, and then climbed in. It was more the size of a small pool, with steps along the edge, while the deepest parts reached his chest. It took time to fill it, but it was worth it, he thought as he sank down on the steps. There were advantages to living in a large mansion alone. He gave an almost bitter snort and walked out to the middle of the tub, sinking down until the water reached his chin.

A bout of coughs made him accidentally inhale water, which in turn made the coughs worsen and his chest stung. How easy it would be to just drown here – no one would know, and he probably wouldn't be found in a long time. Really, who would care if he died right here, alone in his cold prison? His mind could only come up with one answer, and he gave a broken smile before letting himself sink down into the tub, until he was lying with his back against the bottom, hands gripping at the tiles to keep his body from floating up.

Somehow, it was a wonderful feeling to feel his lungs screaming for air. It was like standing on the edge of a steep cliff, only a few inches away from death – frightening and exhilarating at the same time. Air bubbles escaped his lips and floated up towards the light, which seemed to grow more and more distant as he felt water slip into his mouth, replacing the oxygen…

It would be so easy to just disappear... At least it would have been, if he had been human. But, as it was, he didn't deserve the easy way out. No, while humans could simply give up, nations had to withstand loads of shit, throughout hundreds of thousands of years. Standing, he coughed and spluttered, sobs taking over his body as he stood there, dripping and trembling. God, he was so pathetic - one of the strongest nations in the world, standing there naked and stripped of all dignity and confidence, as if he deserved to cry.

Cleaning himself and stepping out of the bath, he dried of and got dressed. His head was killing him, and every step he took felt like a mile. Was he getting sick? Shaking the thought from his head, he made his way down to the kitchen and quickly fixed some breakfast. Glancing at the calendar at the wall, he sighed heavily. The world conference. Fuck, he'd completely forgotten... Meaning that he would have to travel over to America. Part of him just wanted to skip the damn thing – they rarely came to any decent conclusions at those blasted things anyway – but Jones might believe him to wish for another cold war or something. That was the last thing he wanted at the moment.

Deciding to do his best, he quickly packed his stuff – although his mind was a bit woozy, and he couldn't be sure he hadn't forgotten anything – put on some more decent clothes, and, almost as an afterthought, downed a glass of vodka, for strength. Heaven knows he needed it...

oOo

The trip had been hell. Really, he wasn't even exaggerating. The turbulence had been horrible due to some heavy snow falls or something, and he'd been forced to ride in a full-packed plane with humans of every age. He still remembered the ashen shade of fear on the face of the poor boy who'd ordered the wrong ticket – he just started working at the government, if Ivan wasn't mistaken. That expression had made him feel horrible, and he'd let the kid off with a sigh and a half-hearted warning. The others had practically fallen out of their chairs in shock.

He usually wouldn't mind travelling like this, but in his current state, the constant crying of babies, the eager chatter of some teenagers, and the angry barks of grown people who weren't satisfied with the service, seemed like the worst type of torture. And Ivan had seen his fair share of torture.

Needless to say, when they landed, he'd practically rushed of the plane, getting met by light snow fall. It had been a small comfort to just breathe air that wasn't filled with the scent of perfume, sweat, vomit, plane seats and various types of food.

He was relieved when he finally reached the hotel he'd booked a room at, and as soon as he'd locked the door and dropped his bag, he walked over to the bed, promptly collapsing onto it with a groan. God, he felt like he'd been run-over by a truck or something equally bone-crushing. He hadn't felt this under the weather in a long time... Unfortunately, he had no time to dwell upon the matter. Standing, he straightened his attire and headed out of the hotel, catching a cab. He wasn't exactly late, but he didn't have all the time in the world either, and he wanted to avoid arguments today.

The ride wasn't all that long, but gave him enough time and silence to remember the dream again. Ivan had a lot of nightmares, and often. Even so, this particular dream seemed to haunt him on quite a regular basis, with only a few differences. Sometimes, the silhouettes would turn out to be someone else he knew – from time to time, there would even be many of them... But their appearances, the blood and the burning hate in their eyes would always be the same. It never failed to frighten him.

"Yo, we're here, man..." the annoyed voice of the taxi driver thankfully woke him from his depressing thoughts, and he quickly fished out the correct amount of money – thank goodness he'd remembered to bring American values – before stepping out and making his way inside.

Due to his dislike of elevators, he had chosen to take the stairs. And the conference room was on the eleventh floor – thank goodness the building wasn't one of those insane skyscrapers. Still, by the time he'd reached the correct floor, his feet were trembling and threatening to give away – he was starting to believe that he was running on pride and sheer willpower alone, as all energy seemed to have left him ten staircases earlier.

Fucking conference. Fucking American building. Fucking stair cases. Fucking body, refusing to cooperate... He stopped at the top, his head feeling as if his brain was trying to break out using dynamite, and his lungs denying him of the air he so desperately needed. A dizzy wave made him stumble, and he leant heavily against the wall for a moment, thankful that the corridor was currently empty.

Closing his eyes, he concentrated on trying to breathe and calm his rapid heart – he couldn't come to the meeting like this, damn it! He was Russia. _Russia_ for crying out loud! A small voice in the deep of his mind tried meekly to convince him that just because he was Russia, having seen and lived through all the shit he had, he had every right to look a bit worn.

But no, if he lost the cold, "innocent" and smiling appearance, that would be the first step towards destruction. He simply couldn't afford to drop pretences and masks. It was the only emotional protection he had at the moment.

Straightening almost painfully, he forced the weariness off his face, and put the damn confident mask in place, complete with a small smile that left a disgusting taste on his lips. Finally reassured that his legs wouldn't give away, he pulled his scarf further up before his chin and walked briskly towards the conference room. He would make it through this, and no one would know of the inner turmoil, his nightmares or his depressive thoughts at the bottom of his bath all those hours ago.

He reached the room, opened the door... and his mask nearly fell at the immense pain. It seemed that the arguments had already begun, and the levels of loudness aggravated his headache. Stepping in, against his better judgement, everything went dead silent and he cursed inwardly, reminding himself to force the smile back in place. It didn't seem to help, as people and nations alike leapt out of the way as he headed towards his seat without a word.

The silence didn't last long – of course.

"Fuck, Braginski, you look like death itself!" the obnoxious voice of Alfred F. Jones, cut through his ear drums like a chain saw, and he had to try hard not to flinch. He turned and simply gave a small smile, which seemed to make the young nation back off a little – albeit not much. He never was one to understand the concept of personal space.

"Thank you, Jones, and I must say you look extraordinarily disgusting yourself." He replied – quite cheerfully, he might add.

"Seriously, you look like a..." the American cut off.

"Ghost? Boohoo," he said dryly, but with a certain hint of the scary aura he so often used for intimidation. Jones shivered, and his grin faltered a little, before he laughed abruptly and walked off to pester someone else. _Thank God_...

The conference began not too long after this, and as usual, they once again hit a record in loud arguing. It was starting to take a toll on him, and it was with a small hint of panic that he noted the dizzy spells that seemed to come and go, sending black spots dancing before his eyes. It was also getting harder and harder to stay awake and straight-backed in his seat, which was somehow strange, as various articles were currently flying through the air. Shoes, paper, paper clips, books, and was that a hamburger...? Closely followed by scones – that proved at least two parts in the argument. Although it was possible that someone had just grabbed the latter because it was available and not to mention solid enough to really cause damage...

"Mr. I-Ivan, are you all right?" the soft voice next to him startled him out of his daze and he whipped around to see the last face he wanted to see at the moment. Toris was also startled at his sudden movement, giving a small "eep" and jumping back a few steps.

The moment he looked into those soft, green eyes, he knew he was screwed. Flashes from his nightmare seemed to replace reality in his feverish state, and his lungs stopped working. He hardly noticed how everything went silent as he stood abruptly, his chair clattering to the floor while he stumbled away. Toris was eying him with a mix of shock and concern – no, was that hatred...? Ivan couldn't tell anymore.

Whirling around, he darted towards the door, suddenly desperate to get away. Damn door knob, wouldn't twist... Before he really knew what he'd done, he had kicked the door handle of entirely, forcing the door open and running down the corridor. He didn't make it all that far before his vision darkened dangerously, and his mind went blank as he reached the stairs...

It seemed his body had jumped into autopilot, and everything went by in a blur of motion. Leaping down at least five-six steps at a time, it was really quite a miracle that he didn't trip and fall head first. Reaching the exit, he tore the door open and barely felt the cold air hitting against his warm face as he took off in a random direction.

By the time he came to his senses, and regained control of his own mind and body, he was standing in the middle of a park. Blinking dazedly, he barely managed to stumble over to a bench before his legs gave out and he collapsed onto it. Sitting up, he struggled to breathe properly, chest stinging painfully whenever he inhaled or exhaled.

"Oh God..." he'd ruined everything. He'd lost control, let the mask fall. _Oh God..._!

He rested his head in his hands, trembling where he sat. Closing his eyes and clenching his teeth, he tried desperately to hold back the tears that threatened to escape. Fuck, he was breaking down, and at the worst possible time. He should have just called Jones that morning and said he was sick or something... Should have known everything would go to hell.

"Are you all right, sir...?" the tiny voice next to him startled him, and he turned to see a pair of large, blue eyes gazing at him. The girl couldn't have been more than seven years old at most, lithe of build and with pale skin and an array of golden curls that made her look like a little angel. For a moment, he could only stare at her, wondering why she wasn't trembling with fear or running away, screaming at the very sight of him.

"No..." He managed to whisper out after a while. What was the point of lying to the child, when it was quite obvious he was far from all right. He'd never been all right, and probably never would be. It was something he'd come to terms with a long time ago, but always refused to think about.

The girl eyed him for a while, before sitting down on the bench next to him. Suddenly, she took hold of his hand, which had come to rest on the bench between them, holding it in one of her little palms, while she gently patted it with the other.

"It's okay. It's okay to cry sometimes," she said matter-of-factly. He was too shocked to respond. He'd left his gloves in the conference building, and the feeling of her warm skin against his own cold skin was unfamiliar. How long had it been since anyone had touched him like this? How long had it been since anyone had actually comforted him, showing no fear? Despite the fact that he was taller and more broad-shouldered than the average human, and she was such a petite little thing, the girl didn't have an ounce of hesitation in her gaze.

He couldn't help but give her a small smile. It wasn't like the one he usually wore at all – this one was careful, almost shy, gently reaching up to touch his eyes, while more tears trickled down his cheeks.

"What's your name, little one...?" he murmured after a while, gazing down at her. The girl smiled up at him, and for a moment his heart nearly stopped. The look in her eyes did not belong to a child... It was filled with such warmth and understanding, as if she could see straight through to his soul.

She didn't answer, but moved to stand on the bench next to him. Tipping up on her toes, she kissed his forehead, and his eyes widened slightly. Then, before he could react, she had turned around and in a flash of golden hair and twinkling, blue eyes, she was gone...

oOo

Ivan opened his eyes, blinking as his heart thumped wildly in his chest.

"Thank goodness...!"

"Hey, Braginski, can you hear me?"

"Damn, I'm surprised he didn't break his neck..."

What was going on? The flurry of voices seemed distant at first, but suddenly became clearer as his mind seemed to clear somewhat. Blinking, he realized he was looking up at a roof, decorated in a modern, elegant style... What? Hadn't he just...

"Are you ok? Hey!"

He turned his head slightly, looking up at a pair of blue eyes that seemed both hesitant, worried and shocked at the same time. Wait, worried...?

"What... what's going on...?" he managed to ask after a while, finding his voice again as he tried to move. His body felt heavy and sore.

"You fell down the stairs, dude... Jeez, you scared the crap out of us, just running off like that!"

"Are you feeling all right, Mr. Ivan? Can you move?" that voice... looking to his other side, he saw Toris kneeling next to him, gaze filled with concern. For some reason, though, he didn't freak out. In fact, he felt strangely... calm, almost relieved in a way. His thoughts drifted to the girl... had he been dreaming? Well, he had to have been – it was quite obvious he hadn't even made it out of the building.

"Hey... Don't you go blacking out on us again, you hear?" he blinked out of his thoughts, and sat up, feeling his body complain against the movement. No broken bones, though... Just bruises.

"Here..." he looked up and blinked at the hand held out to him. Jones didn't meet his gaze, and looked quite awkward where he stood, but Ivan took the hand and let the other help him up.

"Mr. Ivan... why did you..." Toris broke of hesitantly, clearly regretting asking in the first place. "I'm sorry, it's n-none of my business..." For some reason Ivan couldn't explain, he didn't care about fallen masks or broken pretences anymore... Giving a small sigh, he dried off the tears left on his cheeks.

"I... I'm going home," he murmured after a while. "I apologize for the inconvenience, Jones, but... I'm not feeling well."

"Oh... ok." No one were laughing. No one were mocking him for his sudden outburst and mad dash head first down the stairs. No taunting words. No mirth. Looking up for a moment, he met Jones' eyes, and the blue gaze was for once serious and – if he wasn't imagining it – understanding.

"I'll go with you." He looked to Toris, who was shifting his weight from one foot to another, but meeting his eyes with determination.

He only shrugged, turning and walking away. Behind him he could hear Jones ordering everyone back upstairs to continue the meeting, and turned momentarily, seeing the American give him a quick smile before turning and disappearing around a corner.

The cold air outside was a welcome relief, and as he glanced down the street to his left, he was certain he could see a flash of golden and blue. Pulling his scarf closer up to his chin, he smiled ever so slightly, before heading right.

Some things were not meant to be explained or understood, he decided, and let all depressing thoughts be carried away with the gentle breeze, if only for a short while.

oOo

_Thank you for reading! If you could leave a review telling me what you thought of it, that would really warm my heart~ ^^_


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